


to become (is to break yourself open)

by retiredchild



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Magical Theory Surrounding Trans People, Tenderness Warning, Trans Female Character, Trans Woman Draco Malfoy, ben wyatt voice it’s about the healing..., eighth year is about being GAY and TRAUMATIZED and ACTING A FOOL, its about fallin in luv thru stories a mother tell us abt her son in her letters, its abt coming out and not talking enough and the inherent eroticism of ron kind of being a moron, it’s about the tenderness and the friendship and the comraderie thru trauma, realism is 4 the birds so Vibe Check if that is what u want, they are here to have FUN and BE FRIENDS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 05:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retiredchild/pseuds/retiredchild
Summary: In eighth year, Harry finds a new pen pal in Draco’s mother, Hermione schemes with two Slytherins to make Draco happy, and Draco deals with the impossible weight of having a body. The wrong body. Meanwhile, Ron defends Pluto and everyone realizes they don’t talk enough.“Years later, after the world has crumbled and rebuilt itself again, and Draco — the former Death Eater, returned to Hogwarts as a part of his parole, age still dragging behind Blaise and Pansy’s — is standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, he’ll remember Mrs. Zabini whispered words, his fascination with her tube of lipstick.The reflection staring back at him is him, but shorter. Not sweeter. Still rough around the edges. The reflection’s hair is long and platinum, curling at the waist, over the crests of her breasts. When Draco moves, so does she. When Draco lets out a low moan of agony and sinks to the floor, so does she. So does she.”





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m...dealing with some things re: my own gender right now and have been reading nothing but hp fanfic for weeks so here i am. i b writing fics like “hope this doesnt awaken anything in my viewing of my own gender” and be failing! as a warning draco does use he/him pronouns in reference to himself for much for this chapter....she’s learning. a lot of this chapter and the first one r abt her coming to terms with who she is. ben wyatt voice it’s about the repression

_ i tire myself out _

_ pretending to have a body. _

_ — billy-ray belcourt, “ode to northern alberta” _

“There’s a feeling next to deja vu,” Blaise’s mother is always saying, in the hot summers when Draco is allowed to visit the Zabini estate in the South of France. This time, he’s nine, on the precipice of the beginning of his life while nearing the very edge of his childhood. He has the latest birthday among his friends. Blaise’s mother presses a gem gently to his cheek and smiles like she knows something he doesn’t. “You’re a Gemini, little one. This is your stone.” Draco lifts up his smaller hands to cover hers on the soft skin of his face, feeling the cold press of the stone — his stone, he corrects himself, although he doesn’t know why he’s taking this so seriously. Father says Blaise’s mother is off her rocker. Still, he presses the alexandrite to his chest, like it’s the only thing worth having in the world. The dark-skinned woman crouching in front of him lifts the corners of her mouth. “It’s very rare, you know.” She supplies, even though Draco didn’t ask. Mother is always making fun of him because he’s so quiet in other people’s houses but can talk for hours and hours on end at home.

Blaise and Pansy are making a mess in the walk-in closet, boas and evening gowns spilling out into the parlor Mrs. Zabini is getting ready in. “You can sit down, D.” (Blaise’s mother always does that. Blaise is B and Pansy is P and Draco is D and her latest husband is G. Draco isn’t really sure what the G stands for and isn’t sure if he cares to.) He sits down on the chair against the wall, leaning back but still keeping his gem close to his heart. Mrs. Zabini turns towards the mirror over her armoire, looking up every now and then to steal glances of Draco sitting obediently behind her, watching her strategically place bobby pins into her head of curls until a hairstyle forms.

She brings out a bag of makeup, somehow pristine despite the stacks and stacks of foundations and powders and other products Draco doesn’t know the name of. It’s charmed to be deeper than it looks, and Draco imagines her in one of the Parisian muggle shops choosing her shades, swatches of ones that she didn’t get still left on her hand for the rest of the day. It’s something so mundane, but for weeks after he leaves their vacation home in France, Draco can’t get the image out of his head. How did her fingers curve around the bottles? How did she choose her blush? Why did any of it matter to him?

His thoughts are interrupted when Mrs. Zabini finds the tube she was looking for, twisting the bottom once, twice, three times before the bright red point of lipstick came out. Draco studies her, enraptured by the gentle movements that bring it to her lips. Velvet brown skin disappears under the rich pigment.

Mrs. Zabini meets his eyes again. Neither of them looks away, for a lasting moment. The sounds of Blaise and Pansy’s fashion show fades away. His gem is warm in his small hands. She sets the lipstick down, softly, on the far side of the armoire, and looks away.

Draco doesn’t know why he steals it. He doesn’t know why Mrs. Zabini never tells on him, even though he was the only one who could have known it was there.

The next summer, right before their families begin preparations for fall at Hogwarts, they all go back to the same vacation home, Draco’s age still dragging behind Blaise and Pansy’s. Mrs. Zabini says, “There’s a feeling right next to deja vu,” Pauses to tuck Blaise in tighter next to her. Sometimes, they all fall asleep in her room, listening to her stories about the first year of her being disowned by her family, the way it was to live alone in New York. It just hammers home that Muggles are savages, for Draco. It’s the last summer they’ll ever be young enough to all sleep together in her bed like this. “It’s that feeling when one big realization makes a million little things make sense.”

“Like what?” Pansy asks dreamily, already half asleep. Mrs. Zabini smooths her hair down and smiles down at the girl.

“Like you find out you’re a wizard, and suddenly all the times your food stays warm longer than it was supposed to, or you could go a little longer than other people without turning on the heater, make sense. Or you find out someone has a crush on you, and a million little things that they said to you, that you didn’t understand then, all click into place.”

(They won’t know for a while, that there is a boy miles and miles away finding out that he is magic. Discovering that something greater than his own determination helped him survive the terror of childhood.)

Years later, after the world has crumbled and rebuilt itself again, and Draco — the former Death Eater, returned to Hogwarts as a part of his parole, age still dragging behind Blaise and Pansy’s — is standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, he’ll remember Mrs. Zabini whispered words.

The reflection staring back at him is him, but shorter. Not sweeter. Still rough around the edges. The reflection’s hair is long and platinum, curling at the waist, over the crests of her breasts. When Draco moves, so does she. When Draco lets out a low moan and sinks to the floor, so does she. So does she.

There’s a feeling —

There’s a feeling next to deja vu.


	2. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a penpal, Ron defends Pluto, Draco pulls off a heist, Hermione gets names wrong, and Blaise and Pansy are good friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for dysphoria! be careful luv...also draco is referred to and uses he/him pronouns for this chapter, because he doesn’t Realize until the end. 
> 
> poem mentioned is “vague body” by allison gallagher, published in potluck mag. it’s beyond beautiful.

_ everyone worships feelings _

_ they don’t have names for _

_ but no one is talking about it. _

_ — billy-ray belcourt, “ode to northern alberta” _

The mind healer is always talking about how much trouble Draco saves the world by hating himself before it can get the chance to. By beating himself down before anyone else can think to raise a hand to him. She doesn’t get it, not the way Blaise and Pansy do. They tell jokes at their own expense because then it feels like they’re in on a big secret when someone else does. For years, Blaise has a bit about falling “mysteriously ill” a la his last 5 stepfathers, and Pansy lifts up the tip of her nose and snorts like a pig. Draco has got the impression of his father down to a science. (It’s not as fun anymore. Not when Blaise actually wonders about his real dad more and more, not since Pansy got her nose job over the summer, not since Draco’s father was — well.)

“Does anyone else think Neville is kinda fit?” Blaise says to no one in particular when the three of them are out on the lawn during the first week of school, soaking in the few sunny days left. He’s shading his eyes with his hand and squinting out to look at the group of Gryffindors attempt to teach each other how to play some Muggle game. (“Football,” Pansy says. “They’ve got great bums.” “It all seems a bit homoerotic.” Draco comments, watching a Weasley pile on top of three other fallen players. He moves his eyes away from Potter, who’s sweating through his ratty t-shirt.)

Draco considers and Pansy makes a face like she’s never heard anything worse in her life. “_ Neville? _” She says, incredulously. “As in N to the, E to the, V to the—” Draco laughs and Blaise groans.

“Remember in second year when he fell asleep in class and swallowed his own tooth on accident?” Draco says, and all three of them pause before going into a fit of giggles. Draco tries to let himself laugh more, now. He has to cherish the moments he has before real adulthood, when it will be his job alone to restore the Malfoy name (not that he really thinks that’s possible).

“He could swallow something els—” Draco and Pansy’s loud sounds of protests and disgust have Blaise falling down into a guffawing laugh. He somehow maintains his grace the entire time. Draco wants to ask how his mother is, but families are a sore spot for them, these days.

(It’s a sore spot for everyone. If they all close their eyes and pretend the world starts and ends at Hogwarts’ doors, everything is easier. Even the Weasleys tense up when the owls come in during dinner. Draco wonders, absently, if their mother is always asking them if they’re _healing well, _too. Whatever that means.)

“Earth to Draco?” Pansy sings, snapping manicured fingers in front of Draco’s face. He catches a waft of her perfume and scrunches up his nose.

“I’m allergic to whatever you have on,” Draco offers instead of responding to whatever question she had asked while he was zoned out. “Please never wear it again or hear from my lawyers.”

Pansy smacks his arm while Blaise laughs. “You were _ allergic, _” Here, she employs what she calls ‘air quotes’, something she picked up during her gap year in America. Draco calls them annoying. “To my last one.”

“Well, then, I suppose you should just let your natural scent run free and save me the trouble of anaphylactic shock.” Another smack to the arm.

“Draco, love, you’ve just gotten off the hook for war crimes. Letting Pansy’s musk loose on the world has to be a parole violation.” This time Pansy hits them both, properly, her fist making Draco sway to the side a little as he barks out a laugh at what Blaise has said.

“Anyways, we were asking where you disappeared to yesterday—”

“I wasn’t asking. I respect a man’s privacy.”

“Well, yes, a man’s, but our Draco is just a sweet angel baby,” Pansy replies, pressing a hand to her chest in false endearment. “Aren’t you, Drakie-poo?” She pinches Draco’s cheek and laughs when he swats her away like a particularly resilient bug. “So, whereabouts last night? Did you finally let your hand have its way with you in a broom closet?”

“You’re sick,” Blaise says, but he’s laughing. “D is a hopeless romantic, you know, he would never want to have his first wank like that.” Draco is caught. He can’t argue _ It’s not my first wank! _because then they’ll never shut up, so he lets out a breath and turns back towards the game happening in front of them, scooting back so his long legs are in the shade of the tree they’re sitting under, too.

“We thought the castle swallowed you whole, the old bitch,” Pansy says. This continued line of questioning is the closest they ever get to outright worrying about one another.

“I couldn’t sleep over the sound of Blaise and his left hand romancing each other—”

Blaise kisses the hand in question and grins very shit-eatingly. “Ah, young love!” Draco grimaces.

“So I was just walking around. I found the Mirror of Erised.”

“Again?!” Pansy and Blaise scream at once, a few of the people playing football across the lawn looking up to sneer in their direction. Draco feels his face heating up despite himself and picks at the grass. “I think that bitch is hiding from me at this point,” Pansy continues, more to herself than them. “I think everyone but me at this fucking school has found it.”

“What’s up with you and calling inanimate objects bitch? Is that an American thing?” Draco questions.

“Yes, it is, you wouldn’t understand because you’re not as well-traveled.”

“I don’t think going to Rodeo Drive every day for eight months is considered being well-traveled in most circles,” Blaise offers, closing his eyes and turning his face up into the sun. He never sits in the shade with the two of them, always happy to let his skin get darker as long as he can. Pansy hits him again. “Girl, fuck you,” Blaise says, not bothering to open his eyes or stop sunbathing. Draco feels a laugh bubbling in his throat but coughs it away when Pansy turns to glare at him.

“Anyway,” Draco says, not sure why he feels compelled to tell them what he saw. “I think _ the bitch _is broken.” Blaise laughs. He’s always randomly laughing when Draco says certain phrases in his posh accent. “It showed me myself, but as a girl.” Draco chuckles like he can’t believe how ridiculous it sounds. Saying it out loud let the feeling sink in, that it was just a mistake, that the mirror was wrong.

Blaise opens his eyes and shares a quick look with Pansy, then smiles at Draco. “Well? What cup size, then?” Pansy launches a shoe at his head and the two of them start slapping each other around. Draco closes his eyes and relaxes again, listening to the wind, to Pansy calling Blaise names in two languages, and to Potter shouting commands to his team in the faraway, seemingly never ending game of football. He forces the mirror out of his mind, unclenches his jaw, and just exists.

He knows, now, what a luxury that is.

***

Hermione is happy to be back home, at Hogwarts. Her parents are squared away in Melbourne, their memories of her coming back just weeks before she was set to make her return to England. The breakthrough had felt like the sun coming out after years of rain. Her mother sends her on the train with eight Tupperware containers worth of food, even though _ The school is magic, momma, I don’t need it. _(She had smiled to herself as her friends fought with each other over who would get to eat what Tupperware dinner on the train.)

At Hogwarts, no one is “randomly” leaving pamphlets for Muggle universities on her bed, or on the fridge, or in the _ bathroom. _ Everyone here understands that something deep and unacceptable and amazing and beautiful and fucking terrible had happened here, and had happened in them. No one here asked her if she was _ healing well _. Whatever that meant.

The eighth-year dormitory is a symbol of peace, a reminder of their impending adulthood. They got to choose their own roommates, transfigure their own room decorations. There’s a big wall in the common room that’s half chalkboard, filled with shopping lists and eloquent statements such as MOLDYMORT SUX (Seamus Finnigan) and LONG LIVE PROFESSOR LUPIN with a little drawing of a wolf (Ronald Weasley). The other half is slowly, slowly being filled with pictures, Harry making a stupid face or Neville with his finger stuck in a Venus flytrap. There are none of Draco and his friends, but no one objects to that.

She had come back expecting the eighth years to constantly be on the escarpment of a civil war, especially when they were all living together and when Draco and a few other Slytherins had sat down, quietly, at the end of the eighth year table on the first day of school. But everyone had been. Well. Cordial. (Ron is always saying she never gives them enough credit.)

Draco had roomed with the other Slytherins, and though Hermione sometimes found herself annoyed with his two closest friends’ incessant giggling during class, they had all been harmless. Everyone moved around each other, orbiting planets in a delicate ecosystem. When she says this to Ron, he replies, “Fuck the planets for leaving Pluto out,” and she doesn’t bring it up again. (She can’t say anything to Harry. He’s been too easy-going lately, as if the routine of being at Hogwarts had shaken him out of the trance he had been in all summer. She’s also kind of afraid of putting Malfoy back on his radar in any way, lest they have a repeat of sniffing the air and hissing out _ Malfoy… _era Harry.)

Still, she finds herself missing the feeling of being needed, of having a problem to solve and someone to help. Spending your childhood fighting for peace isn’t very good preparation for actually finding it.

So when Draco’s giggling friends — Pinkerton and Bellini, Hermione’s brain supplies helpfully — corner her after class, she’s almost excited to have this new adventure of kicking their ass.

Until they don’t actually want to brawl, and Hermione has to relax, more than a little disappointed, as she slides into a seat in the corner of the now empty classroom. “Granger,” Bellini starts, then clears his throat. “Hermione.” There’s a silence while he and Pinkerton have conversations with just their eyes.

“That’s me,” Hermione offers, because she’s come to the realization in the past few seconds that Bellini is not his name, which also puts the validity of Pinkerton in question. “How can I help you?” She squints at them, trying to place them during the Battle. She can’t, but that’s okay because she can’t really place anyone except herself, the tribal drum beating of her heart, her mind swirling with images of when she was a girl, her cousins dancing in the courtyard of their house in Lagos, her mother’s hushed tones in the other room this summer, _ She’s not the same, Ola— _

“Granger,” Pinkerton — Parkinson, some part of Hermione corrects — says, marginally softer. Hermione wonders what her face had screwed up into as she lost control of the speeding train that was her thoughts. “We need your help.” She grits out, like she’s fighting her very nature to say it. Hermione squints harder and looks between the two of them. Parkinson’s nose isn’t as scrunched up, anymore, she realizes, and admires the work for a moment before nodding for them to continue.

“What do you know about…” The Wizard Formerly Known As Bellini leans forward, whispering, “Sex changes?” Hermione looks between them again, tries to see any joke on their faces. There is none. She clears her throat before she answers.

“As in, the procedure? Or wizarding practices regarding them? Or actually...being transgender?” Zabini — God, Hermione had really butchered that one — looks at Parkinson. They have another silent conversation. Hermione wills her impending headache away.

“The third, we think,” Then Parkinson sits down next to her and Zabini leans down against the desk they’re at. They proceed to explain everything, like how they know exactly how it works for wizards because Pansy’s nephew and Zabini’s third step father’s second cousin — which isn’t a family tree Hermione has time to unpack, although she momentarily tries — both underwent the necessary round of potions. “But we don’t—” Zabini looks to Parkinson for help. There’s a lot of this kind of back and forth. Asking for help is not stressed as a part of Salazar’s legacy, it seems.

“Purebloods don’t talk about it. It just happens. Then it’s like— the old version of you dies. Your picture changes on the family tapestry, if you have one, and no one ever brings it up.” Hermione swallows the fact that a lot of Muggles would kill to have no one ever bring it up and screws her face up.

“So, one of your _ friends, _” This time, she looks back and forth between them, 80 percent sure the friend is one or both of them. “Might want to start taking gender reassigning potions.” Zabini nods, releasing a breath like the shoddy way they had conveyed this information had taken everything out of him. “But you don’t know how to talk about it, or any resources about how to know if you want it?”

“If _ they _want it,” Parkinson corrects, shooting Hermione a sidelong glance and folding her hands on the desk. “And precisely. Like we said. We don’t—” Parkinson pauses in that way people have been doing a lot after the war, in the way that means something you’re about to say is definitely going to remind the person you’re speaking to of something terrible, but must still be said. “We don’t ever talk about it. They cast the spell, the potions reinforce the spell into permanence, and then it’s over.”

“It’s not like it’s super taboo or anything. It’s kind of the same as being gay and pureblood. It only matters if you’re the very last of your line. If you’re not, no one ever talks about it.” Zabini talks like he knows from experience. Hermione is aware of the fact that wizards are liberal on homosexuality to the point of it not really being something anyone considers political, similar to race. It was all about blood purity, which Harry’s very brown father and very gay godfather had both had.

“That sounds lonely,” Hermione says, for lack of something more tactful. “To have to come to that realization without being able to talk to anyone.” _ We’re all so lonely, _ Molly had said in the Burrow that summer, laughing emptily when Ginny came home and went straight to her room just like everyone else had done. _ She’s not the same, H-- _

Zabini falters, then nods. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Parkinson turns more towards Hermione, her eyes almost too sincere. “We’re talking about Draco, Granger,” She says it like the words burn coming up. Hermione stares back.

“I figured,” She lies. This had come out of the left fucking field. She wasn’t even sure if it was in the same stadium as the guesses she would have made. “No offense, but you two don’t have many friends.” Zabini yelps out a laugh and Parkinson follows.

“Probably on account of the whole Blaise thinking Longbottom is fit thing,” Parkinson says solemnly. “People can smell the nastiness wafting off him.” Zabini — Blaise, Hermione corrects herself, feeling like she’s on a rollercoaster with all these different names and a _ Slytherin _ calling _ Neville _fit — whacks Parkinson on the ear and rolls his eyes.

“Anyway, we were hoping...Muggles make such a big deal out of things like this. Maybe you know some ways we can help him, y’know…”

“Come to terms?” Hermione supplies, and they both nod. “How do you know it’s what he wants?” She asks. She’s beyond proud of her intellectual prowess, but she didn’t even think she fully understood what was going on in Ron’s head at any given time, much less the terror dome that was Draco’s mind.

“He saw himself in the Mirror of Erised. As a girl.” Blaise says.

“And there’s other stuff, too. A million little things that didn’t make sense to us until he said what he saw in the mirror.” Parkinson adds. “We just— want them to make sense to him, too.” Hermione sees the concern on their faces that they’re desperately trying not to let show. The unspoken words sitting on the table between them. Tupac and Biggie had died last year and she hadn’t even known. Selena had gone two years before them. There were all these missing parts in her life, now, things that birthed sadness and longing where there should have been joy. Life is hard enough, she knows, without feeling something fundamentally _ wrong _inside you.

Life is hard enough. She’s not the same as she once was. But none of them really are.

“Of course I’ll help,” She answers, and is surprised to find she completely means it. “No woman left behind.”

Zabini and Parkinson beam.

***

“Where’d you go after Potions?” Harry asks when they’re all in the common room later, Seamus and Dean trying to get the steady static of Muggle boombox to turn into a hip hop station. Harry agrees that music is one place wizards continuously lose in (other areas included burning-at-the-stake related social events and not thinking The Exorcist is a comedy). Hermione is laying on the ground, her book open on Ron’s stomach and her hand trailing lazily over the sleepy rise and fall of his chest. Harry sits on a beanbag, back to the wall instead of the fireplace or the door. Sometimes it feels like he’s still on the run.

Hermione smiles up at him and closes her book. He squints to make out the words. He really needs to get his glasses recharmed to a new prescription. The yellow cover reads, _ Mom, I Need To Be a Girl _ in swirled lettering. Harry blinks. “Why? Are you mad I missed our appointment to complain about homework?” Harry grumbles out a _ No, _and Hermione laughs, quieting herself when Ron stirs beneath her.

“Are you happy to be back?” Harry asks, pushing some of his hair out his face. He didn’t cut it all summer, running from Molly’s shears and declining Kreacher’s requests to handle it for him. He’s thinking about growing it out to his shoulders like his dad had done in the 70s, by the looks of a picture Harry had found in Grimmauld over the summer.

Hermione smiles. “No one here is trying to get me to be a second-generation dentist.” Harry snorts and winces at the same time, which sends Hermione into a fit of giggles again.

In moments like this, Harry wants everything to just hold still. He wants the rest of his life to be Ron snoring softly on the carpet of their common room, and Hermione’s weird books, and him watching over the two of them. “You don’t know that,” He finally answers. “I could always use a free check-up.” He bares his teeth and Hermione sits up to swat at him relentlessly before plopping down on the beanbag next to him, resting her bare feet on Ron’s chest. The redhead, almost instinctively, rests his hand on top of them and continues snoring.

Hermione looks at Ron so fondly, at that moment, that Harry suddenly feels like he’s intruding. Their intimacy is so new that sometimes it sneaks up on him. “Hey,” He whispers, and Hermione turns to him, smiling softly. They all smile so much now, and laugh so much, and do so much dumb shit, like any funny thing will be the last they hear. “What do you think Malfoy’s game is this year?” He finishes, instead of telling her he loves her until he ends up crying in the middle of the common room.

Hermione groans and puts her head in her hands. “Please remove me from this narrative,” She answers. “I will not indulge your _ Malfoy _ obsession again.”

“But he hasn’t talked to me _ once _since the trials—”

“Harry. Tough love warning.” Harry huffs and slides down as far as he can in his bean bag without falling to the ground or disturbing Ron. It’s not very far. He can tell Hermione thinks this is all very funny. “You didn’t shake his hand when we were eleven. You lost all right to stalk him.”

“Stop being fucked up to me,” Harry groans into his hands. Hermione lets herself laugh this time.

***

The next day, Harry finally gets his interaction with Malfoy, albeit not the Malfoy he was expecting. After the familiar white owl that delivers Malfoy’s mail drops it on the opposite end of the table, where he, Parkinson, and Zabini always sit, it makes the short trip to Harry’s shoulder. Hermione raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, too busy scolding Ron for eating chocolate frogs at breakfast. (“I feel like you’re treating me like Pluto, ‘Mione.” “Planets do not have personalities, Ronaldjamin!” “That is not my full name!” “I know, I just thought you needed a name as foolish as you are!”) Harry shakes his head and drowns them out after feeding the owl a little piece of sausage, using his thumb to pry open the letter.

_ Harry, _

_ I hope it’s okay if I call you Harry. I know my son insists on calling you Potter, but I think it’s an insult to your individuality. In addition, I knew your father and you have not made half of the trouble he would have in your position. _

Harry takes a deep breath in, and wills himself not to cry in the middle of the Great Hall. He feels eyes on him, so he ducks his head back down to finish reading.

_ I worry behind Draco, but I think me asking him how he’s doing only makes things worse. So I won’t ask you how you’re doing, either. I feel like that’s all anyone is ever doing now. _

Harry feels like he’s part of an extremely elaborate practical joke. Narcissa Malfoy is spilling her guts about her son, and calling him Harry, and making jokes about his Father. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or endeared by the sheer size of her balls.

_ I don’t want to keep you from your friends or classes for long. I just wanted to formally thank you, and let you know that if you ever have a problem you think I can help with, do not hesitate to reach out to me. In the wake of war, life debts are easy to come by. People who care about how you go on living after they help you are very rare. Friends are even rarer. _

_ I hope you enjoy the chocolate. I’ll send more before the holidays, so let me know if you are allergic to anything. _

_ Narcissa Black-Malfoy _

_ (P.S. Draco has often informed me that the pressure of responding to mail [even though I know I am the only one writing him] is simply stifling, so do not feel obligated to send any response.) _

Harry is reeling from the surrealism of it all as he wraps his hands around a big box of chocolates, individually wrapped in different colored foils. Narcissa Malfoy went by Black-Malfoy now (Harry’s heart pangs for Sirius), and she was worried if he was allergic to anything. She was making jokes about the precociousness of her son to Harry like they were old friends, like she had just leaned over at Christmas dinner and said, _ “But you know how Draco is,” _with a good-natured eye roll. Harry’s overcome with it and finds himself running his fingers over where she has signed her name, like the bumps under his fingers would make it real.

When he goes to steal a glance at Malfoy, he finds the blonde already staring, unwrapping his one of his own chocolates. When their eyes meet, Malfoy looks away like he was caught doing something illicit, all of his attention suddenly focused on getting the foil off the chocolate. When it’s finally off, he pops it into his mouth, then two more right after, like he keeps forgetting he already used that excuse to find something to do with his hands. Harry watches in bemusement as he tries to chew all three at the same time, the table ringing with laughter from Zabini and Parkinson calling him all kinds of dumbasses.

Eighth year is bizarre is a completely different way than every other year at Hogwarts had been.

***

Draco’s friends are acting strange. And not their regular, traumatized rich kid strange, but a truly disorienting kind of strange. They always want to be in the library, now, which is baffling in its own right because Draco just recently gained proof that Pansy could, in fact, read. In the library, they’re never reading textbooks, instead saying stuff like, “Draco, did you know your third cousin twice removed on your mother’s aunt’s side was born a woman?” and “You know, your cousin was really hated because many people were under the impression that he was a mass murderer, not because of the gay thing.”

“Stop studying my family tree, you massive tits,” Draco finally says, gathering his books in a huff after Pansy goes on a particularly galvanized rant about a cousin from, like, the 1800s that Draco has never even heard of. He thinks he hears Blaise mumble a, _ Great jobs, Captain Obvious, _ and Pansy reply with, _ Don’t ever accuse me of serving in the military. _He rolls his eyes and stomps back to the eighth year common room.

He whispers the password (_Voldewart_ _Sux, _chosen by one Seamus Finnigan), and finds it mostly empty, save for one or two people loitering in their respective corners. He breathes out and settles himself onto the sofa, kicking off his shoes and crossing his legs on the couch. Theo is probably in their room asleep because that’s kind of all he does anymore, so this suspiciously comfortable couch is the closest he’ll probably get to peace and q—

Luna comes tumbling into the common room right as he opens his Potions book back up, and Draco turns his head towards the sky. “Ah, fate, you are a cruel mistress indeed,” He says, as he feels the couch dip under the extra weight of Lovegood plopping down next to him.

“Hello, love,” She says, leaning over the kiss Draco’s cheek. Really, he doesn’t like people other than his mother touching him (which always works out nicely, because his mother does not like touching people), but Luna is always the exception.

(He’ll always feel guilty. She has the password to their common room because she had to find Draco to talk her down from the nightmares, the whole first week of school. He looks at her and understands why the adults here are always asking them if they’re okay. He’d hand Luna the heart out of his chest if she asked. If it would make her feel better.)

“Hello, Lovegood. Free period?” Luna nods as she slides her dainty feet into Draco’s much bigger shoes. Something in Draco breaks apart for a second, shame and discomfort flaring up like a hot flash. That’s been happening, since he saw...that version of himself in the mirror. He’s been examining every part of his life, trying to find a million little things that don’t make sense for every million that do.

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know who to tell it to, without sounding crazy. They don’t talk about that. That should be the post-war slogan. Prefects guide the first years smoothly past where the castle hasn’t quite grown back together from the battle, saying, _ We don’t talk about that. _ His mother clenches her silverware tightly at the dinner table all summer, saying, _ We don’t need to talk about that _ . Draco wants to say, _ The silence is an answer, too. _

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that Luna has to pinch his arm to get him to tune back in. “Went to go see the Thestrals, then?” She asks softly, like it’s actually something that makes sense. In a weird way, it makes Draco feel much better. He nods.

“Sorry. What did you say?” Just then, the common room door creaks open again, and Draco watches as Potter steps through, surprisingly by himself. He allows himself to stare until Potter inevitably catches him, and then he forces himself to look down at his book, face suddenly burning. He wishes he had some chocolate to shove into his mouth. He wants to ask Potter what his mother is saying in those letters, but he doesn’t know how to without starting an argument. So far, every opener he’s had is eerily close to, _ She’s my mom! Shoo!, _which, although probably effective, is not the poster for house unity he has to be for his parole.

Luna waves at him from where they’re sitting and ushers him over. 

“Sit, sit, Harry, we were just talking about Draco’s mind Thestrals.” Draco wants to sink into this couch and disappear. He can’t tear his eyes away from the book in front of him, even though he’s not particularly interested in it or, you know, reading any of the words.

“Hm,” Potter says appraisingly as he sits on Luna’s right. “Tricky stuff.” He finishes, sounding much too official for someone who was talking about something completely fictional. Draco thinks, if he imagines the ground opening and swallowing him up, he could will it into existence. Luna is nodding solemnly.

“I do not have _ mind Thestrals—” _Draco starts, haltingly, and Luna giggles.

“You wouldn’t _ know _ if you had them, silly,” She says, then turns to Harry as if to say, _ Can you believe this guy? _Potter looks at Draco over Luna’s head (another hot flash of shame as Draco remembers just how tall he is) and almost smiles.

“Yeah, silly,” Potter concurs, and Luna laughs even louder, Potter joining her this time. His hair is growing longer than it ever has been before, his baby hair sticking up in the front of his head and the rest of it curling a little past his ears. When he throws his head back and laughs, the dark curls fall onto the back of the couch. Draco forces himself to look away, face burning even more.

“Don’t you have class right now, Potter?” Draco finally says, narrowing his eyes at his book. He’s still not reading.

Potter clucks and lets his head fall back fully against the back of the couch before turning to look at Draco. “Independent study, Malfoy.” Potter’s eyes are kind of twinkling. Draco wants to ask him just what the hell he thinks he’s doing, laughing at Draco’s expense and eating chocolate from his Mother and sitting here with twinkling eyes.

“Is that what you call buggering off classes in Gryffindor?” Draco responds, raising an eyebrow and looking back down at his work, face finally cool enough for him to try and focus.

Potter tuts. “Cissy said you were still testy,” He says, and Draco sputter for a moment before slamming his book shut and stomping up to his room, the sound of Potter laughing at his back.

***

“I mean, what fucking reality am I in? Potter calls my mother _ Cissy _?!” Pansy groans and flops back against Draco’s bed.

“Please, no more Potter talk. I’ve reached my limit.” Blaise says from where he’s laid out on the floor, his textbook over his face and his words mumbled against the pages. “It feels like we’re 12 again.”

“Pansy, did you _ see _ him run out the Great Hall after they said a troll was loose? What a _ moron. _” Pansy says, deepening her voice an octave to sound like Draco. (Shame, again. Has his voice always been this deep? Has his body always been this foreign to him?) Blaise laughs.

“Blaise, did you _ see _ him flying around like he doesn’t care about his own life? Fucking _ idiot. _” Blaise adds, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. (Draco’s been trying not to pay attention to his chest, anymore. Something about it off, and he’s starting to think it’s not just the scars Potter gave him two years ago.)

“Well? It’s not my fault he’s a moronic mother-stealing idiot.” Draco mumbles. “It’s like, doesn’t he already basically live with the Weasels? Is he collecting mothers like chocolate frog cards?” Blaise giggles and rolls over, his textbook hitting the ground. Draco is yelling all of this out at them from where he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, door open, as he examines his jaw.

He’s spent so much time, these last few weeks, pulling at his skin in different places, trying to make it fit. Trying to get it to settle back down. His body feels like a tongue in the world’s mouth, never really resting comfortably, just dormant in it’s uncomfortability long enough for everyone to forget it’s not right. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, to Blaise or Pansy or even his mother — he bubbles with more anger over her correspondence with Potter— mainly because he doesn’t know what it is he’s feeling.

“You okay in there?” Pansy calls a little while later. Draco snaps out of his head and blinks away the water that’s in his eyes for some reason.

“I’m fine, come on.” He comes out of the bathroom and slings his bag on. “You guys have to actually study today or you’re banned from ever coming to the library with me again.”

Blaise scoffs and picks his books up from the floor. “You can’t ban us from anywhere, toad,” Pansy laughs and Draco rolls his eyes, flipping them both off and starting the walk to the library.

Once they’re there, Blaise and Pansy are up to their usual antics, a _ Muffliato _cast and them loudly laughing about nothing. From what Draco can gather as he tunes in and out of the conversation, Blaise is on his way to seducing Neville, which means he is in stage .5 of a 23 step plan, and Pansy is thinking of getting her boobs done, too.

He gets up to take one of the books he’s checked out (one detailing the many roles mermaid scales in potions) and Pansy slides a book over to his side of the table, smiling up at him sickly sweet. “D, dear, will you put this back for me?” She says, and Draco stares between it and her for a long second before picking it up.

“You owe me ten minutes of actual studying,” Pansy waves him off. “And I’m not joking, you massive tit.”

“I’m trying to get massive tits, haven’t you been listening? It’s called an augmentation!” Draco groans and walks into the stacks, sparing a glance down at Pansy’s book and then having to look back, like something bigger than him had called him to.

_ On the Suffocation of Gender: A Collection of Poems. _ Without meaning to, not quite sure what it is about this book that seems so illicit, Draco finds his way to a secluded corner and opens the cover, gingerly. There’s a short foreword, but there are a lot of words he doesn’t recognize, like _ dysphoria _ , and _ gender euphoria, _which both feel like one of those random phrases that would make Blaise laugh if Draco ever dared to say them aloud.

He reads through most of it in general confusion, a feeling he’s always hated. Mother says even the smartest people in the world died before solving certain equations. That struggling to understand some things doesn’t negate his intelligence in all other things. But poetry has never made sense to him. Flowery language is not what he grew up on. He’s just about to close the book and shake himself out of it when he reads it, words hitting him like a punch in the face.

**people assume my problem**

**is that i’m a woman trapped in a _ man’s _ body**

**when the problem is more like,**

**i’m trapped in _ a _ body**

“I’m trapped in a body,” Draco breathes out all at once. “I’m trapped in a body.”

_ ** to become is to break yourself apart, ** _

**i remind myself each time i leave the house**

**it’s supposed to hurt this much.**

“It’s supposed to hurt this much.” He whispers, like a chant, running his fingers over the flat plane of the printed words, like they held a secret he was desperate to learn. He shoves the book into his bag quickly, looking around for Madam Pince before letting out a shaky breath and going to put his book on mermaid scales back.

When he gets back to the table, the bag seems to burn him from where it;s buried in his bag, his palms sweaty and his mind unable to focus. He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s pulling off a heist when him, Blaise, and Pansy finally leave the library for dinner.

***

_ Mrs. Black-Malfoy, _

_ I don’t feel comfortable calling you Narcissa, although your son may inform you I have referred to you as such in a (successful) attempt to get under his skin. Please don’t take this as disrespect. _

_ I don’t think I’m allergic to anything. I really don’t know how to tell. I’m not sure my immediate family (who I grew up with) were especially vigilant about those things in regards to me. _

_ You’re right that life debts aren’t exactly rare anymore. I’m pretty sure I owe most of Britain my life, so I’m glad you’re the only one who’s stepped forward to claim it. _

_ I wanted to formally (or maybe informally, I’m not the best at formal letter writing) thank you, too. I think that people can always be good, no matter what. I think we always have that choice, and that it’s never really too late to make it. _

<strike> _ Hope this finds you well, _ </strike>

_ Hope this finds you well (I wrote it on the wrong side), _

_ Harry J.P. _

_ (P.S.: I don’t think writing back is stifling. I think perhaps the small novels your son writes back to you makes every response quite the undertaking on his part, though.) _

***

“Ronald?” Hermione asks at dinner, pushing her peas around on her plate while Ron shovels down mashed potatoes. Ron makes a _ hm _sound and Harry snorts. “What do you know about sex changes? As a wizard?”

Ron finishes chewing slowly, then takes a big gulp of pumpkin juice. “Which part?” He responds, more serious than Hermione thought he would have been. Harry stops listening and turns his attention to the newest letter the Malfoy owl has dropped in front of him. Hermione has been meaning to ask about that, but Ron is looking at her so earnestly that she knows now can’t be the time.

“I mean, how does it work?” Hermione starts. She knows how it works, logistically speaking, and she’s been reading books about some of the history behind the invention of the gender reassignment potions.

“You say you want it done. There’s not a special wing or anything in St. Mungos. You just go to your regular, family healer and tell them you want it. It’s not really expensive, because there’s a limit to how much they can charge for procedures and potions that are directly linked to your wellbeing. Like, if you cursed my nose inside out and I’m in constant, they can’t charge me an arm and a leg to fix it, but they can charge as much as they want to do, like, a cosmetic surgery.” Ron motions passively in Pansy’s direction. Her nose was the main topic of discussion among the boys in the common room last night.

“Do you know if there are any, like...resources? Specific to magical beings?” Hermione presses. Ron raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, looking somewhere between apologetic and grave.

“We don’t— we don’t talk about it. It’s just something that happens.” He takes another sip of pumpkin juice, then swallows quickly and snaps his fingers, pointing one at Hermione the way he always does when he remembers something. “Like, you remember meeting Fleur’s little brother, right? Year older than us, maybe?” Hermione nods. “Yeah, he, um— well. You know.” Hermione regards him for a beat, astonished at just how much they don’t talk about it. “The potions only work because they work with your magical core, so it’s not like a center for it would be helpful to muggles or anything. Basically they cast the first spell, which is, um, like surface level. Gives you tits, maybe longer hair, makes your voice a little higher.” Hermione smacks his arm. “Sorry, gives you _ breasts, _” Harry snickers. “It lasts for maybe a few hours, depending on how strong the magic of the person casting it is, and if you’re, y’know, changing, then you take a potion that makes it permanent. Then, over a few weeks, you take different potions to help the spell along.”

“Help it along how?” Hermione asks, leaning forward and trying to remember all of this in layman's terms Ron is providing, so she can relay it easily to Blaise and Pansy at their meeting later. Ron breathes out like this conversation is hurting him.

“Like, if you’re turning into a bird, it’ll make you shorter after a few doses. Will make your _ breasts _ bigger. You’ll start getting a monthly. My cousin says the first one is a bitch, cause you’re growing a baby carrier and everything.”

“A uterus?” Hermione provides, and Ron grimaces.

“I think the healers call it a baby carrier, ‘Mione.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Hermione finishes, and Ron giggles. Feeling satisfied with the conversation as a jumping off point for further research, she turns to Harry, but pauses when she feels Ron knock his shoulder against hers. She raises an eyebrow inquisitively and he looks at her seriously, adoringly. She’s almost breathless with it.

“I don’t—” He stumbles and looks for the right words before continuing. “I don’t really fancy blokes, but if you need to go to Mungos or Pomfrey, I’ll go with you, Hermione. We won’t stop being friends if we break up.” Hermione smiles and picks up his hand from the table to press one kiss to it.

“It’s not for me, promise.” Ron smiles back at her and reaches over to steal a sausage off her plate. “You’re a garbage disposal.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Ron sings back, and Harry interrupts them to offer them some of the chocolate Mrs. Malfoy has sent this time. Ron blindly wraps his hand around three and drops them onto his plate. “For later.” Hermione groans. “Mum Malfoy sure has been sending you a lot of sweets, huh?”

Harry chuckles at the name. “My official theory is she’s fattening me up to cook me, but I can’t prove it.” Ron howls out a laugh and Hermione feels the corners of her lips flick upwards despite herself. “But, really, she’s not too bad. She’s kind of funny, actually.” He says the last part more into the sausage that’s halfway into his mouth than to either of them.

“Can I read the letter?” Hermione asks, and Harry nods and makes an _ mhm _ sound around a mouthful of food, sliding the piece of paper across the table.

_ Harry, _

_ Yes, my son has informed me of this transgression. You were pages 2-3 of his last small brick of a letter, so thank you for that. Please don’t worry about respect. We’ve both fought in wars. I would hope we could regard one another as equals. _

_ I would also like to take this time to say there is no ulterior motive, in these letters. I am writing you because I want to hear from you. I want to know that you’re alright without having to read the terrible rag they call The Prophet. I did not know your mother or father very well (I was years ahead of them for the brief time we were at Hogwarts together), but I recall your Mother (editor of a short lived Hogwarts paper) saying that The Prophet was not worth enough to wipe a horse’s ass with. I remember this because her prefect at the time relayed it to me with mild concern for what, exactly, she would grow up to be like. I’m glad that her legacy is as convicted as she was. _

Hermione pauses and sucks in a breath, sparing a glance up at Harry, who’s happily shoving more food into his mouth. Narcissa Malfoy is speaking so calmly about Harry’s mother, like they were just schoolmates who had missed each other time and time again, and not women on opposite sides of a war. Hermione thinks, absently, that maybe the only side either of them were ever really on was their children’s. She wonders if Narcissa Malfoy and Lily Evans Potter became inexplicably linked, in some way, when they threw themselves over Harry’s body as shielded him from Death.

_ I’m sorry if that was a lot to unpack on you. Please let me know if I ever overstep. I’ve come to understand that we don’t talk enough. As women, as purebloods, as magical beings. “We never want to just talk about it. It feels beneath us. But words are all we really have. To remember, to hold onto, to live in. It’s important to leave as many words behind as possible.” My son said that to me. I told him he will live on forever, then, because I have never met someone quite as talkative as he is. _

_ As you can imagine, he is very cross with me over my comments. He wrote me an eight page missive about my disregard for his superior intellect and fast moving mind. I wrote him back that his Eight Pages proved my point. I imagine he’ll be reading that at the same time you’re reading this. He might try to send me Howler. Please try to discourage him, as I am a grown woman these days. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Narcissa Black-Malfoy _

_ (P.S.: You can have an allergy test safely done at the school infirmary. I’ll be asking Madame Pomfrey about you, so do pay her a visit before responding to this letter. Tell me if you’d like to try something other than chocolates.) _

Hermione looks up at Draco, sat on the opposite end of the table, and smiles a little to herself when his face screws up at the letter he’s reading. He looks as though he’s a mother reading a particularly frustrating letter from her child, instead of the other way around. She turns to share a knowing look with Harry, but he’s still turned towards Draco, a smile so soft it’s almost blinding on his face.

Blaise and Pansy say they saw the book of poems shoved under a pile of clothes of Draco’s bed the other day. They say he tries to get dressed in the dark, these days. Hermione swallows and takes a long sip of her juice, ignoring the question in the look Ron shoots at her. She thinks about what Blaise said, about the feeling right next to deja vu. She looks from Harry to Draco and back again. A million little things come into focus.

Everything is suddenly much more complicated.

***

The next week, Draco sits at one of the marble countertops in the common room, just to the side of the chalkboard wall. He swings his legs from where he sits on the stool, revelling in the fact that they don’t touch the ground. It’s one of the main reasons he likes sitting over here, now. He always feel staunchly aware of how tall and lanky he is when he crunches together on the couch.

He has a headache coming on from his fourth attempt at writing his Transfiguration essay. At this point, he just wants to shove the paper in his mouth and start chewing, and tell McGonagall, “How’s that for the constantly changing state of objects?” But, his parole and his common sense say otherwise. There’s a gust of air as someone opens the common room fridge behind him (it’s an eighth year only luxury, and they all take advantage) and sits down on the stool next to him. Draco moves over minutely, not wanting to bump elbows with whoever it was. He would just go to his room, but Theo and Blaise were busy elsewhere right now, and he had learned that he could never focus, in silence. He didn’t like the places his mind took him.

“Malfoy,” A familiar voice says, much too warm. Draco finds himself blushing for no reason at all. Potter’s voice sounds like he is greeting a child he frequently indulges, not a lifelong nemesis. Draco makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement without looking up from his essay. (He’s gotten into the bad habit of scratching, _ i’m trapped in a body _ into his papers when his mind wanders too much.) “Transfiguration essay?” He inquires, and Draco sighs and drops his quill, folding his hands together to face Potter fully.

He wishes he hadn’t. Potter is biting into an apple, some of the juices dripping down over his bottom lip. A pink tongue flashes out to lap the droplet up before Draco can even properly say goodbye. He clears his throat and looks at his watch. “Independent study again, I presume?” Potter laughs and Draco has to force himself not to go rigid.

“You caught me,” The brown boy replies. “I’m supposed to be going to the hospital wing to get an allergy test done, but I’m worried they might say I’m allergic to something I like a lot, like…” He furrows his thick eyebrows together and Draco has to suppress a laugh of his own when his expression turns sad. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything I like that much.”

“Riveting,” Draco deadpans, and Potter rolls his too-green eyes. “No, I mean it, you should tell me more if that apple doesn’t make your throat close up.” Potter seems to consider this, and then takes another, bigger bite of the apple. This time, Draco does let himself snort. “Wow. You really showed me, Saviour.” Potter makes a sound of agreement around the chunk of apple in his mouth. “Too bad I still win, due to the fact that I’m not afraid of getting an allergy test done.” Draco finishes, plastering a look of faux sympathy on his face.

“I’m not afraid!” Potter yells, then sinks into his chair a little when a few of the faces in the common room turn to stare at him. “I’m not afraid,” He murmurs. Draco can’t stop the corners of his mouth from lifting a little.

“Then go do it, Golden Boy.” The blond says, turning back towards the papers in front of him. He really, actually has to get this done soon. “Before my mother sends you a chocolate with nuts in it and gets framed for murder.” This time, Potter laughs.

“You and her are funny in the same way,” He says, then picks up the bag he had dropped onto the floor, ignoring Draco’s gobsmacked expressions. “By the way, she says she’s too old for you to be sending her Howlers.” Potter finishes, smoothing is hair back into place behind his ears. It really does grow abnormally fast, Draco notes absently, still reeling from the fact that Potter thought his _ Mother _ was _ humorous. _“Ta, Malfoy.” He calls behind himself as he steps out of the common room.

Draco is staring at his paper in shock, then folds it up and puts it in his bag. He has a (respectful) Howler to send.

***

“Hey,” Draco whispers towards Blaise’s bed later that night. “Are you awake, B?” Blaise stirs and open up the curtain over his bed, tilting his head in acknowledgment. “How’s your mum?” A frown comes between Blaise’s eyebrows as he pulls a face at Draco.

“She’s okay. We’re— talking about it. It’s kind of hard for her. We started talking about my dad and stuff, a little.” Draco hums and Blaise rests his head on his arms, looking out towards Draco’s bed. They can only see the outline of each other in the darkness, Theo’s snores wafting softly through the room. They’ve always been able to talk honestly when they’re up late in the shadows like this. It makes them both braver. “Apparently he really did die of natural causes. His family hates her. They don’t know about me.”

“Well, must fucking Hippogriff shit to be them.” Draco responds, and they both giggle. Nothing is ever that serious, in the dusk, when they’re tucked into their own beds and are just waiting for tomorrow. “B?”

“Hm?”  


“You remember you were telling me about your second step father’s second cousin—”

“Third stepfather’s first cousin, but continue.” Draco rolls his eyes and Blaise laughs again. “What about him?”

“I was thinking I could maybe intern at that clinic you said he runs. For healing? Cause, you know, I don’t think a lot of other places would take me.” He sees Blaise’s outline nod and he swallows. “But I don’t know a lot about, erm, all of that. Could you give me her Floo address so I could call? Ask some questions about the whole t—”

“Of course, D,” Blaise says, almost whispering. Draco nods and is about to close his curtain and say goodnight when Blaise adds, “I know we don’t talk about it but. We could. Me and Pans, we would always listen.”

Draco blinks tears out of his eyes and feels his blood run a little colder. “Yeah,” He says, weakly. “Goodnight, Blaise.”

“‘Night, D.” Blaise answers with a yawn, rolling back over to face the wall.

When Draco wakes up in the morning, the shower is already running and Blaise’s bed is empty. Theo is having _ another _lie in (Draco is starting to think the Nott family mind healer must not be very good at their job), and there’s a business card with a Floo address sitting on top of three or four pamphlets about The Magic of Gender, whatever that was. He forces the wetness out of his grey eyes until the words on the pamphlet unblur themselves again, and tucks them securely into his desk drawer.

How had he ever thought he could survive on this world on his own? How deep was the darkness that could have made him forget what a shocking and beautiful and terrible feeling it was to be loved by others?

***

“He took the pamphlets, Nene! We’re as good as gold!” Blaise beams, digging into the Tupperware of food Hermione’s mother had sent with the last owl. Hermione isn’t sure when they all became so comfortable with each other, or when, exactly, they had decided it was okay to call her _ Nene. _

“Blaisington,” Hermione replies, knowing how ridiculous it sounds but also knowing Blaise won’t respond if she calls him anything else. “We’re not good as gold until Draco feels better.”

“And isn’t getting dressed in the dark,” Pansy adds, transfiguring her quill into a fork and fighting with Blaise to get to the jollof. Hermione watches, bemused, and nods. “But I guess all that’s left now is the waiting game, huh, Nene?” She says over the sound of Blaise nursing a fork-sized stab wound.

“Yeah. I mean,” Hermione casts a quick healing spell, which Blaise thanks her for, and then turns back to Pansy. “We can’t make him realize anything.”

“I’ll miss the sneaking around a bit, though,” Blaise laments. He perks up. “Wanna help me with phase three of my twenty three step plan to bang one out with Longbottom?”

“Wow,” Pansy says incredulously. “Are you in phase three already? You sly dog, you.” Blaise takes the praise with a big smile, and Hermione can’t stop herself from laughing a little. “Oi, but seriously, we’re bare good at this whole covert ops thing. We shoulda been spies.” She nudges Blaise and he swats her away, too focused on the food in front of him.

“I’m much too pretty to be in the shadows,” Hermione says, trying to do her best impression of Blaise and knowing it comes out stiffer than she intended. She can’t really help it. Impressions have never been her strong suit. She flips her hair mechanically, like how Pansy is always doing.

The two Slytherins in front of her stare at her for a second before busting out into loud, uncontrollable laughs. “We never wanted you to be like us, Nene,” Blaise says solemnly, which sends them all into another round of hooting and hollering.

Hermione will miss this, she thinks.

***

The waiting game is taking a bit longer than any of them thought. Every other day, Hermione turns around in Potions with a question in her eye, and Blaise or Pansy (whichever one of them catches it) has to shake their head no. Hermione’s shoulder slump and Blaise thinks, distracted by Draco shouting at him not to drop whatever he’s picked up into their cauldrons, that she really does care too much for her own good. She’s too good a person, maybe. She’ll be great in whatever it is she does after they all leave here.

Blaise and Pansy are considering taking drastic measures when they find the pamphlets from the clinic in the trash, and when they overhear Draco returning the book of poems. He’s been writing _ “i’m trapped i’m trapped i’m trapped” _over and over again in the margins of every paper he touches.

They’re discussing the merits of an extremely elaborate plot that involves no less than 25 Bowtruckles when it all happens at once. Draco comes into Pansy’s room and asks if she has a nail file. She nods and motions towards her desk drawer, continuing the talk with Blaise about the exact illegality of plan Alpha B7 when Draco hisses out a, “What the fuck.”

All the color leaves both of their faces as they watch him page through their correspondence with Hermione, pages and pages of resources and ideas and thoughts they are sent back and forth. Pansy had completely forgotten where she stored them away to, figuring they might be useful later on. She cringes at the way Draco’s knuckles have gone white where he clutches the papers.

“He never liked the Quidditch changing rooms?” Draco reads, anger coming off of him in waves. “It’s like he’s always trying to forget he has a body?” His voice breaks around the last word, and he looks up at his friends with so much hurt and so much fury that Blaise has to look away. “You’re talking about this with fucking _ Granger? _ Of _ all _people?!” He slams the stack of misshapen parchment down on the desk and Pansy tries not the flinch. “Like I’m a fucking potions experiment!”

“We didn’t know who else to talk t—“ Blaise murmurs, and presses his lips together at the look on Draco’s face. “You were drowning, we were trying to h—“

“I don’t need your fucking help!” Draco yells back. “I know how to fucking deal with it, okay? I know how to live with it, I always have!”

“You shouldn’t—“ Pansy forces her voice lower. “You shouldn’t have to just live with it. You deserve better. Life is hard enough, D, for all of us.”

Some part of Draco’s resolve crumbles, and he closes his eyes shut tight. He’s been getting dressed in pitch blackness, not even wanting his fingers to graze against his flat chest. The last time he touched himself he cried until his skin went red. He lives with it.

“You—“ He starts, his hands turning to fists, a feeble attempt to grab at his own skin and not feel disgusted. “You don’t know what it’s like. How it…” He sinks, suddenly, to the ground, desperate to feel something solid beneath him. “How it _ feels,” _ Draco breathes out, his throat tightening around the words. Distantly, he registers Blaise and Pansy coming to sit down next to him. He buries his face in his hands, sick at the feeling of all the jagged edges and the little bit of stubble under his chin. “How it feels,” He sobs, and Pansy wraps an arm around him and pulls him in.

That is—the beginning of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> you can leave a kudos and comment if u want! it’s def appreciated but i think im doing this for me .... to ... gestures to my body ... figure all this out IXNSNDNSNSKSP


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